Sarah and I stood ankle deep in funky mud in the middle of a corral in the middle of Merryvale which, confusingly enough, is both a land and a person.

Sarah held the reins of Lady, a dappled gray pony who’s a full head higher than Noodels, my favorite mount with the misspelled name. He’s a Palamino Shetland-cross pony. And that’s exactly what he was at the moment.

Cross. Very cross.

He was cranky because he was wearing large, black, floppy galoshes. So was Lady, and she wasn’t any happier about it than he was because, well, there’s nothing sillier looking than a horse in overshoes.

They both knew they looked ridiculous, and it didn’t help any that Godolphin stood outside the corral, snickering at the sight.

Godolphin’s a giant, sleek, jet-black Morethanthoroughlybred who claims to be older than the world and younger than the universe. He has red eyes, dark wings and breathes fire.

He’s the only one of his kind, and thank goodness for that.

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